ile my
lord Yvain is at the window gazing at her, and the more he looks at her
the more he loves her and is enthralled by her. He would have wished
that she should cease her weeping and reading, and that she should
feel inclined to converse with him. Love, who caught him at the window,
filled him with this desire. But he despairs of realising his wish, for
he cannot imagine or believe that his desire can be gratified. So he
says: "I may consider myself a fool to wish for what I cannot have.
Her lord it was whom I wounded mortally, and yet do I think I can be
reconciled with her? Upon my word, such thoughts are folly, for at
present she has good reason to hate me more bitterly than anything. I am
right in saying 'at present', for a woman has more than one mind. That
mind in which she is just now I trust she will soon change; indeed, she
will change it certainly, and I am mad thus to despair. God grant that
she change it soon! For I am doomed to be her slave, since such is the
will of Love. Whoever does not welcome Love gladly, when he comes to
him, commits treason and a felony. I admit (and let whosoever will,
heed what I say) that such an one deserves no happiness or joy. But if I
lose, it will not be for such a reason; rather will I love my enemy.
For I ought not to feel any hate for her unless I wish to betray Love.
I must love in accordance with Love's desire. And ought she to regard me
as a friend? Yes, surely, since it is she whom I love. And I call her
my enemy, for she hates me, though with good reason, for I killed the
object of her love. So, then, am I her enemy? Surely no, but her true
friend, for I never so loved any one before. I grieve for her fair
tresses, surpassing gold in their radiance; I feel the pangs of anguish
and torment when I see her tear and cut them, nor can her tears e'er
be dried which I see falling from her eyes; by all these things I am
distressed. Although they are full of ceaseless, ever-flowing tears, yet
never were there such lovely eves. The sight of her weeping causes me
agony, but nothing pains me so much as the sight of her face, which she
lacerates without its having merited such treatment. I never saw such a
face so perfectly formed, nor so fresh and delicately coloured. And then
it has pierced my heart to see her clutch her throat. Surely, it is all
too true that she is doing the worst she can. And yet no crystal nor any
mirror is so bright and smooth. God! why is she thus possess